The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

The Wilkerson house was set back in the trees on a lonely dead-end road. Dry leaves flew in the wake of Shawn’s truck, and pecans were tossed around by our approach. Bet the squirrels had a field day out here.

The house was very odd-looking—a giant Victorian painted a dull pink. It looked old, with graying gingerbread trim and sagging eaves.

I parked behind Shawn in the driveway and we walked together toward the front door.

“Does Mr. Wilkerson have a big family?” I said.

“Nope. Lives alone. Has a grown daughter who lives somewhere else.”

A knot of sadness filled my throat. Being alone in a house meant for more than one person was something I was far too familiar with.

Then I saw a cat in an upstairs window. My heart skipped. But I quickly realized this cat was much smaller and darker than Syrah.

Shawn noticed what I was focusing on and said, “Tortoise exotic shorthair.”

“Exotic shorthair?” I said. “They are so cute. My cat breeder friends say they shed as much as a Persian or Hi malayan, though.”

“That’s because they’re just Persians with short hair. Sweet cats,” he said.

We’d reached the front stoop and Shawn said, “Welcome to the famous Pink House, one of the first houses built in Mercy.” Shawn pressed the doorbell.

The dampness and chill of the day seemed to intensify as we waited for Wilkerson to answer, and I pulled my sweater tighter around me. When we got no response, Shawn pushed the bell again and didn’t take his finger off. I was a little surprised by his determination, but it matched my own. Finally we heard footsteps accompanied by masculine curses. The door opened a crack.

“What the hell—oh, it’s you, Cuddahee. Shoulda known.” The door opened about six more inches.

Flake Wilkerson’s face was lean and roughened by weather, his gray eyes small and narrow with suspicion. Not a pleasant face, that was for sure.

“See you got a cat upstairs, Flake. Where’d you get it?” Shawn said.

“SPCA in Greenville—not that it’s any of your business.” Wilkerson moved one bony blue-jeaned knee into the open door space. Maybe he didn’t want that little exotic shorthair to escape.

For some reason I noticed his foot. He wore a leather slipper and I think he had the smallest man feet I’d ever seen.

“How many more cats you got in there?” Shawn said.

“You still looking for those fe-lines you lost? Still whining about that break-in months ago? Get over it, man,” Wilkerson said.

“I know it was you, Flake,” Shawn said. “Prove me wrong.”

“I don’t have to prove nothing to you.” For the first time his gaze fell on me. “Who’s this? The Pet Patrol?”

“You don’t need to know,” Shawn said. “You need to deal with me once and for all. Invite us in, Flake. Show us those cats of yours, the ones you claimed to love so much when you visited the Sanctuary.”

But Wilkerson didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was looking me up and down. “Like those green eyes of yours, lady. Like a cat’s, only softer.”

I was creeped out by his comment, but he didn’t seem to notice. He turned his gaze on Shawn. “She’s pretty puny muscle if you intend to push your way in here. I say go ahead and try. Then we’ll see who’ll be accusing who of what. Only this time I’ll have you for trespassing. Maybe I already got you—”

But Wilkerson was interrupted by a long, lean tuxedo cat that had slipped around his barrier leg. Before he could bend over to catch the cat, it streaked away from the house and into the trees.

Wilkerson’s cheeks infused with color and he got in Shawn’s face. “Now look what you done, you ass.”

Wilkerson stepped outside, closed the door behind him and shoved Shawn aside. Then he took off after the cat. The man had to be sixty if he was a day, so I was sure his pursuit would be futile. That was one fast cat, one that seemed determined to escape.

“Should we help him?” I asked, even though I was certain I didn’t want to return a cat to this man.

“Are you crazy? Let him run himself right into a heart attack.” Shawn was as angry as the man he’d just confronted, and I was beginning to regret coming here. Obviously Wilkerson wasn’t about to cooperate and let us inside. And he surely wasn’t about to admit he’d stolen my cat. Why should he? I had absolutely no proof that he had Syrah. This dispute was between Shawn and a strange man, and it was an old dispute at that. My desperation had put me in the middle.

“I think we should leave,” I said. “He could charge us with trespassing—especially now that he’s pissed off that one of his cats escaped.”

“He won’t charge us with nothing. Don’t you see he’s hiding something—like maybe more than the four pets the town allows? I could lie. I could say we saw five cats in the windows. That would get someone’s attention.”

“Come on. Let’s go.” I took Shawn’s elbow. “You don’t want to lie and get yourself in trouble. I am so grateful to you for helping me, but I’ve learned a thing or two from Candace in the short time I’ve known her. We’ve got nothing but suspicion. We need evidence.”

Shawn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Guess you’re right. It’s just that I know there’s something wrong with this guy. He’s not a cat person. He’s too mean-spirited.”

“Maybe Candace will help us get evidence. She seems to know a lot about the folks in town. Wilkerson would be hard-pressed to turn the cops away if I could convince her to question him.”

I glanced toward the woods to the left of the house and caught glimpses of Wilkerson’s red plaid shirt weaving between the trees. At least he wasn’t yelling. Nothing like screaming profanities to send a cat in the opposite direction. “He wants that cat back in a bad way. But you’re sure right about him. It’s not about love.”

We started toward the driveway, Shawn’s head hanging in defeat. “I’ll get that bastard another day.”

I thanked Shawn and then we both climbed into our vehicles. But we hadn’t gone a hundred yards when Shawn’s brake lights came on up ahead of me. I had to stop quickly to keep from slamming into him.

But then I saw why. He was out of his truck in a flash and soon kneeling by the side of the road. The tuxedo cat, its tail in the air, was rubbing against a slim maple. Shawn held his hand out, and soon the cat came to him. Wearing a satisfied expression, he swept up the kitty, turned and smiled at me. He gave me a thumbs-up before he put the cat in his truck and we took off again.

Uh-oh . I believe I’m a witness to a catnapping .

Four

After I’d arrived home and released Merlot and Chablis from their crates, they took off as if their tails were on fire. Seemed they’d had enough of traveling around town. Their absence while I ate made me a little sad. I needed to discuss today’s events with them. No, I don’t hear their voices while I jabber on, but they can be attentive. And sometimes they’ve helped me see things I might otherwise have missed. Maybe later on I could advise them to never go near any pink houses.

I’d picked up a bag of boiled peanuts from a roadside vendor, and now I made a lunch of sweet tea and nuts. Only quasi healthy, but great comfort food. I wondered whether what I’d seen Shawn Cuddahee do—grab that tuxedo cat off the side of the road—was exactly what had happened to Syrah. And would I ever get an answer to that question?

The tuxedo would fare well in Shawn’s care, and the cat hadn’t been on Wilkerson’s property when Shawn had found him, so maybe that didn’t qualify as catnapping. I still felt guilty about what I’d witnessed, though, and for the next several hours I kept busy picking out quilt patterns and fabrics for recent orders rather than think about it.